


what it really means to live life golden

by princessoftheworlds



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Childhood Friends, M/M, Mentions of miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:49:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27200072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/pseuds/princessoftheworlds
Summary: Sarah Rogers had already lost her husband; she was determined not to lose her son, but there was only one woman who could help her with Steve: Winifred Barnes.AKAAn AU where small-town, not-so-human Steve and Bucky grow up together and then their lives take different turns.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	what it really means to live life golden

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhhhh, it's been so long since I've written for stucky. A year and a half in fact. Anywhoooooo. I found this fic loitering around my hard drive and was very disconcerted because I don't remember writing it or it existing. Either way, I wanna rid myself of this ghost so I figured I'd post it. It was originally meant to be a multichap, but I don't plan on writing any more so...please enjoy this fragment of an AU I was briefly enthused about. 
> 
> In addition, the writing's a bit shit. I wrote this around Christmas 2016, meaning I was a junior in high school. Now, I'm a junior in college. Needless to say my writing's improved a great deal, but please try not to judge 16-year-old me too harshly?

**1991**

When Sarah Rogers receives the letter, she sets it down on the dining table of her small kitchen with trembling fingers.

She knows what it will say.

_ Dear Mrs. Sarah Rogers, _

_ We are deeply dismayed to report that your spouse, Cpt. Joseph Grant Rogers, was declared KIA on May 27, 1991. _

Sarah rests steady hands on the sizable bulge of her stomach, eyes burning with unshed tears, as she whispers to her unborn child, “Looks like it will be just you and me, little one.”

* * *

It is Independence Day 1991, and the bundle cradled in her arms is still.

It became obvious to Sarah the moment her child,  _ her son _ , failed to make a sound.

The tears begin to well up in her eyes, blurring her vision, and a cold dread settles over her and her heart twinges painfully, sensing her loss, but Sarah Rogers is a determined woman, and though her body has rushed to accept it, her brain knows better.

Sarah swipes the tears away, drying her face with her rough hospital blanket. She wills her body to relax, brings her heart under control, and allows the calm to flood her body. 

Then she reaches out, not with her body but with her soul, with the  _ fae  _ magic of her ancestors until she can sense the empty vessel of her baby, until his silent soul is nearly tangible. 

She breathes  _ magic  _ back into the soul, into her babe, willing him to  _ life _ . 

Sarah waits until the connection is complete, and then, the flow of  _ fae  _ to the boy falters, and Sarah slumps back against the crumpled pillows. 

It takes a moment and then another, the longest of Sarah’s life, but finally her son wrinkles his tiny nose in his sleep and open hazy eyes to reveal the brilliant blue pupils that belonged to Joseph.

When her son lets out the loudest wail Sarah has ever heard a baby makes and batters his little fists until he is red in the face, Sarah laughs through her streaming tears.

The nurses are bewildered, but Sarah is content.

A sliver of  _ fae  _ has been ripped from her, but the gaping hole in her heart since Joseph’s death is patching itself over.

She names the little babe Steven after her long-gone brother and Grant after Joseph’s father.

Steve, as he is christened by a nurse, stares up at her with  _ fae _ -bright eyes as Sarah coos at his little face.

* * *

**1994**

As baby Steve grows into toddler Steve, Sarah comes to regard her son as the strongest child she has ever known, despite his fragile body and weak heart. He is a fighter, latching on to life with the tiniest bit of  _ fae  _ Sarah has managed to give him, and is still gripping it with determined hands.

But, by the time Steve is three, it seems that Sarah’s  _ fae  _ magic has weakened and is soon to give out. 

Little Steve catches a fierce bout of pneumonia that this time he can’t seem to shake off. 

For weeks, Sarah can hear Steve’s wheezy coughs echoing through the apartment, sits with him when his frail body convulses with shivers. His breathing is worsening and worsening, and Sarah can swear that Steve’s skin is gaining a blueish tinge.

The doctors cannot do anything for him; they say that Steve’s time is coming for him. 

Sarah knows that this isn’t true.

Steve’s time came for him long before, and he is paying the price now. 

One night, while he sleeps fitfully under his mound of blankets, Sarah sits next to her son and strokes his golden hair gently. 

She keeps one hand cupping his head and closes her eyes, allowing her mind to relax and her soul to wander. She can feel the  _ fae  _ in Steve’s precious soul.

It is faint but pulsing, and a small smile curves on Sarah’s pale lips as she allows her  _ fae  _ magic to flow to Steve. Slowly, his breathing evens out, and a rosy tint returns to his pale Irish skin. 

Relieved, she curls her hands in her nurse scrubs and leans her head down, fighting the slight lightheadedness she is feeling. 

A single drop of scarlet falls and soaks the pale material of her pants.

Sarah brings a cold hand to her nose in realization, touching it slowly just as spurts of blood begin to gush past her fingers, trailing down and dousing her clothing.

Sarah shudders, body wracked with a low, twinging but still noticeable pain that resonates in her soul, but her heart aches more harshly than her head when she notices Steve’s skin coloring blue again.

Her stomach turns with regret and grief, and tears prickle sharply in the corners of her eyes before the dam breaks and they flow freely down her cheeks. She hunches over, face buried in her trembling hands as Sarah sobs.

_ Sarah _ ’s paying the price now, for not being strong enough to help her son. 

But there is someone who can help Steve.

* * *

The small Virginian town where they live is hidden in the shadows of the bigger cities. It is not that they try to hide; no one just ever thinks to look for them. 

But, if one ever comes to visit Brooklyn, away from the Brooklyn of New York, they will discover the slight reputation that the town and its citizens have come to hold, the unusual ancestry that lends them unusual talents. 

No one seems to be disturbed by this when, in fact, a wound treated by Sarah Rogers heals within hours or a patient on the brink of death passes away without pain. Or when a prediction made the Dernier family is proven true a few days later, or when the voices of long-lost family can be heard through the Morita matriarch.

Or when Winifred Barnes can bring a blind man’s sight back or help a little girl walk again.

But those are only the rare cases.

No one in Brooklyn has ever given life before, only Sarah.

And if anyone help Sarah heal Steve, it is Winifred, blessed with an inexplicable gift that produces miracles.

* * *

Winifred is of average height, plump, and with beauty that is fading. Her features are vaguely Eastern European (Romania, my great-grandparents were from Romania, she later tells Sarah), and her eyes are the most remarkable, a color that can only be described as somewhere between icy blue and smoky grey. Behind her trails her son, only a year older than Steve, with the same eyes.

His name is James Buchanan Barnes, and Sarah winces, thinking that it is such an illustrious name for such a little boy.

Winifred notices and explains, “We named him after my father, but my husband, George, is a history buff and named him after a president. I didn’t let him even hold our younger Becca until I had named her. Now, where is your little one?”

When she is directed to tiny Steve curled up under his blanket, wheezing almost pathetically, she clucks her tongue in sympathy, but, nonetheless, she sets to work.

She seats herself besides Steve after leaving James occupied at her feet with a stuffed bear and traces a single hand over the fair-haired toddler’s forehead. Finally, she places both hands fully at his temples.

It only takes a few minutes before she retracts her hands and pulls Sarah aside.

“Steve’s life energy is slightly unlike any I have ever seen before,” Winifred tells her. She hesitates slightly before continuing, “there are rumors I have heard in the town about him, about his birth.”

One look at Sarah’s face, and Winifred has her answer.

“Of course.” Winifred nods thoughtfully. “My gift is a delicate and weak thing, but, if I manipulate it properly, I can yield powerful results. First, I will have adjust Steve’s life energy to help him recover from the pneumonia. Then, I will gradually be able to manipulate his life energy even further so his soul better accepts whatever it is you have been doing for him. The process will be subtle and may take months or years, and he may never be as healthy as a proper child.”

Despite all of the conditions Winifred has stated, Sarah finds her eyes dripping with tears. “Thank you,” she whispers to the other woman.

Winifred nods gruffly and returns her attention to Steve.

* * *

**1995**

Steve’s earliest memories are slightly blurry and revolve around his mother, Aunt Winnie, and her son.

The boy is only a year older and has been there with his mother for most of her visits to the Rogers apartment. He usually sits at the feet of his mother and hugs a stuffed bear. 

On a day that Steve is feeling particularly well, he sits up in his bed and asks the boy, “What’s your name?”

“Huh?” The boy looks up from his bear in confusion.

“What is your name?” Steve repeats, drawing the question out.

“James,” the boy says. “James Buchanan Barnes.”

Steve’s tiny nose wrinkles in concentration as he attempts to say James’ full name. The closest he gets is saying “James Buckyanan Barnes.”

“Buchanan,” James corrects him patiently.

“That’s too hard,” Steve complains. “Your name is Bucky.”

James nods with the logic that is reasonable to a five-year-old; James is too boring a name for a boy his age. Bucky is perfectly exciting and fun to say.

“Okay,” Bucky says seriously.

From that day, when Sarah and Winifred walk in to find their sons playing with Bucky’s stuffed bear, and forwards, Steve and Bucky are never seen without each other.

* * *

**1998**

It is a quiet morning with Steve in his bed, coloring with crayons, and Bucky seated on the bed by his feet, reading a thin chapter book.

“Aunt Winnie says I might be healthy enough to go to school with you,” Steve says. “Ma agrees.”

Bucky glances up from his book, startled. “Really?” he asks excitedly.

Steve has been homeschooled by Sarah since he was four, and Bucky goes to a regular public school but intensely dislikes splitting his attention between his best friend and his friends at school. 

“Yeah.” Steve nods quickly, eyes acutely watching Bucky for his reaction.

“That’s awesome! You’re gonna love my friends.”

* * *

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says quietly, coming up behind Bucky on the playground while the brunet boy tosses a ball with his friends. 

“Steve?” Bucky asks, dropping the ball in surprise and turning to face the shorter boy. “I didn’t know you were starting school today!” 

Steve shrugs in response.

“Who’s your teacher?”

“Ms. Burgin.”

Dissatisfied with Steve’s curt replies, Bucky drags his friend in front of him to face the rest of the boys. “This is Stevie. He’s in first grade, like us. He’s younger than us, but his ma taught him herself, so Stevie’s real smart.”

One of the boys, a burly redhead, steps up and assesses Steve, the hunched-over posture, the skinny limbs, the shock of white-blonde hair. “I’m Dum Dum. Can you catch a ball?”

Steve nods hesitantly. “Yeah,” he says in a near whisper.

“Good.”

Dum Dum throws the ball at Steve, and the boy catches it in surprise. He lowers the ball down and turns it over in his hands, stunned.

“Here, Stevie!” Bucky cries, darting far away on the blacktop. “Throw me the ball.”

Compliantly, Steve chucks the ball, putting the entire force of his tiny body behind the throw. The ball soars for several feet and then slams into Bucky who had jumped up to grab it. 

“Nice throw,” another boy compliments. He’s only a little taller than Steve and of Asian descent. “My name is James. You can call me Jim. Nice to meet ya.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Steve says politely, eyes slightly glazed.

It looks like he just made a couple friends.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have much else to say???
> 
> Find me on tumblr [here](http://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/) or on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/rajkumarinik). I tweet occasionally amusing commentary on nonsense. Please come talk to me and tell me if/how much you like my fic or like ask me about it on tumblr; all my schoolwork has become remote now, and I have limited social interaction.


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